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“For your information, this is a 100 percent Corinthian leather Waist-all® designed specifically for the woman on the go,” I pronounced boldly. “This happens to be high fashion this season, along with slightly lower hemlines, and hot electric colors. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s coming out of New York and Paris this season?”

“No, but I’m betting it’s not that,” he growled.

“That’s how little you know,” I shot back before stomping out the front door, Waist-all® securely in place.

In truth, I had recently embarked on a one-woman campaign to thrust this comfortable and convenient purse-like item into the realm of high fashion. After spotting a young lady downtown wearing a chartreuse and black dress, accentuated by puffy chartreuse and black hair, a pair of bright orange stocking, and a pair of scuffed combat boots, I was inspired to dig out my old fanny pack (a gift from my father) from the depths of my closet and to scheme up a fashion statement of my own.

Stephen might think these little wonders are ugly, but the reality is that when they’re packed properly they provide the female form an eye-popping new dimension. When my husband sees Jennifer Lopez sporting a trendy Waist-all®, I’m sure he’ll have a change of heart.

Then again, my sense of realty has been a little out of kilter since Richardo Montalbán was ousted from “Fantasy Island.”

How could Jen, or any woman for that matter, not want one of these modern-day marvels? This snappy accessory puts everything you need right at your fingertips: money, credit card, debit card, Starbucks card, library card, driver’s license, lipstick, cell phone, and keys. The benefits are countless. Now that you’re not schlepping a big purse, you can really get the blood flowing as you walk (improved health). You can carry more books from the library (improved education). And with both hands free, you can even make more demonstrative hand gestures to the idiot drivers (improved communication).

For centuries, men have been free to talk with both hands, while women have been limited to one-handed expression because their other hand always had a death grip on the stupid over-sized pocketbook slung over their sore shoulders. Subtle oppression is always the hardest to overcome. I think it’s time Jen and I stepped out and strutted a little function over form on behalf of women everywhere. Won’t you join us?

The question seemed to ooze into my being from another dimension. I stepped back from the door and squeaked into the ether, “The library.”

During my teenage years, “library” loosely translated, “anywhere boys might be hanging out.” Startlingly, prior to one particular planned trip to the “library,” my apparel had caught the attention of my father. I’m unsure about who was more startled…my father, because I was wearing an ancient precursor to the present-day tube top; or me, because my father had actually voiced his disapproval of my clothing (what little of it there was) without using my mother as a filter. Rather than miss my ride, I changed my clothes.

After shaking off that chilly moment of nostalgia, I turned to my husband who was peering over his reading glasses, his book still open on his lap, his serious brown eyes set directly on me.

“I’m going to the library,” I repeated honestly. After living with nothing but men and boys for almost a quarter century, the bloom was off the rose regarding the male species. Those once sought-after exotic and thrilling creatures had proven themselves over time to be mostly just loud and messy, and that unfortunate revelation had restored the word “library” in my brain to its original etymology.

“I don’t think you should be wearing that in public,” he pressed.

“Oh, you don’t like my pink shirt?” I obfuscated. “Let me explain this ‘pink’ thing to you. When middle-aged women begin choosing pink as a primary color in their wardrobes, it’s just signaling the winding down of their maternal time clocks. When you see me wearing pink, I’m simply expressing a non-verbal, ‘no more babies for me’ attitude. It’s sort of an outward manifestation of some hormonal jig going on at the sub-atomic level. It’s all very scientific. Perfectly normal…nothing to worry about.” I turned to leave.

“It’s not the shirt.”

“The jeans?”

“It’s the f-f-f-fanny p-p-pack.”

There, he’d finally spit it out.

“Men do not want their wives to be seen in public wearing one of those things,” Stephen hissed, the ice clinging to his last word.